Photographs of a Tragic Anderson: A Collection of Odes to Loki
by gotta B writin
Summary: *FORMERLY WHATEVER HAPPENED TO HAPPY ENDINGS?* Inspired by another writer's love for the character/actor, I have begun a collection of unrelated one shots that deal with a very unlucky Blaine Anderson. Let's see how many tragic situations we can put Blaine into. Some more serious themes will be dealt with. Read at your own risk, though please note that the rating is only T.
1. Vol 1: The Alley

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello! I wrote this the other night as a joke, and ended up going over it again with a fine-tooth comb. I'm not normally this…dark?...but I don't hate how it turned out, so I figured I might as well throw it on here and see what people think. **

**DISCLAIMER: This deals with the subject of rape. It doesn't get sexually graphic in its description by any means, but the story revolves around the rape of a character (and no, I'm not talking about how the writers have royally ruined Tina's character this season). Obviously if you're against the notion, then hit the back button. **

— **Glee —**

**Photographs of a Tragic Anderson: A Collection of Odes to Loki**

**Volume 1: The Alley**

Blaine whistled to himself as he walked, almost danced down the street. He had just had the most perfect night with Sam. It had been their third date together, but he already knew that it was something special, that Sam was something special. The adrenaline he had from his night was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to feel the cold surround him as he made his way down the block. His apartment was only a few blocks from Sam's, and so Blaine had decided to walk. It hadn't been cold when he left for Sam's, but on his walk back, it seemed as though the temperature had taken a drastic turn. Even as he pulled his coat tighter around himself, he refused to let his spirits be dampened by a little cold weather. As he turned the corner, Blaine noticed an alley beckoning his name, promising a shortcut to his apartment and saving him precious minutes from the cold.

As he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets and jogged across the street, his breaths billowing around him, his heart raced slightly from his exertion as he calmly walked down the narrow way, his mind continuing to dance in the memories of his night that he had just spent with Sam: his perfect night.

He could almost hear the strings of the orchestral soundtrack to this moment as he meandered down the alley, noticing how the moonlight glinted off the wet brick walls on either side of him. He was living a movie moment, one so perfect that he pitied those around him for not being able to experience the joys that were engulfing him in that moment. He felt like bursting out into song, as corny as it may have been. He couldn't remember ever feeling so happy or full of energy: it far surpassed the time when he was a student at Dalton Academy, dancing on furniture and belting out Top 40 tunes in a five-part harmony with his friends. The world shone a little brighter as his smile refused to leave his lips.

His heart began racing again, though for a different reason, when he saw a large man emerge from the shadows of the alley. It was as if someone hit the pause button on his soundtrack and dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. He was frozen in his tracks, a chill running up and down his spine, warning him to just turn around and take off running. He wanted to run, wanted to sprint in the opposite direction, but found himself unable to move.

"You look lost," the man said, his words slicing through Blaine like a knife. The words danced through the air, mocking him with their fake kindness. The man wasn't sincere. They glint in his eyes spoke of a much more malicious character.

"I'm not," Blaine stuttered, his words coming out in segments, though he tried his best to not appear as terrified as he suddenly felt, "I'm just taking a short cut. Sorry to distur-"

And the rest of Blaine's words were lost in the moment and forever forgotten as he felt himself slam backwards into the wall and a rough hand descend upon his mouth. It all happened in a fleeting moment. One second he was standing in the middle of the alleyway and the next he felt the hard bricks scratching the small of his back as he shirt had been untucked somehow in the moment. He winced as he felt a slight burning on his now cold skin. The combination of heat and cold was soon forgotten though as his mind focused back on his attacker.

"Shh," the man purred menacingly, "it's no fun if someone hears you and interupts us..."

Blaine felt tears of terror freeze on his cheek as the rough hands invaded him. His silent cries filled the nothingness around him. He struggled, pushed, kicked; he did anything he could think of to get free, to get away. He continued with all he had, fueled by his fear and echoes of a battered high school freshman outside his Sadie Hawkins Dance. He didn't want to relive that night. He didn't want to add a second act to that horrible memory.

Why was it happening? Why did life have to punish him for a second time? What could he have possibly done to deserve it all again?

He jerked his head back and forth futilely, trying to free his mouth to at least scream for help—scream for someone, scream for himself—but it only resulted in a deep, throaty laugh from behind him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, creating small pools on his attacker's hands before flying away as they were whipped to and fro. He continued to fight, but felt himself being drained of everything as each second passed. He felt weaker and weaker, more helpless than he had ever felt as his muffled shouts and screams turned into broken whimpers.

He could feel the man continuing his forced intrusions as he slowly felt the world turn to black around him.

Blaine lay on his cold, cement bed. He felt nothing. He felt nothing, and yet he felt everything at the same time. He felt empty and hollow, as if his entire being was no more. He felt useless and used, no longer a person. He was a ghost, a forgotten memory, a shell of human that could no longer be considered a person. His insides had been stripped away despite his protests, his pleadings. All that resonated with the raised skin as the wind continued to howl around him like a predatory wolf, just waiting to make its fatal strike.

But he also felt every bit of burning flesh that made up his body in that moment. He felt every surge of hurt and anguish as the man had barreled into him. He felt the hot breath on the back of his neck as he begged for an end, begged for some semblance of mercy to descend upon him in that moment...but no saving grace ever arrived. He felt the phantom pains that weren't actually phantoms, but fully real sensations, betrayals that his body continued to force onto him, even after the nightmare had ended. He was a slave to these sensations and memories.

He had passed out sometime in the middle of it, he wasn't sure when, no longer able to withstand his existence; and there he was, lying in the middle of the dark alley, in the shadows that his attacker had appeared from. There had to be some poetic irony in that little fact: emptiness returning to where the thief had first appeared. Blaine felt so unlike himself in that moment, so different from how he had only seconds before the devil had appeared to him.

Broken.

Battered.

He didn't even know that he was crying until another heartless wind blew down the enclosed space and chilled the backs of his wet hands. He almost expected the tears to freeze and create little patches of ice on his skin. He blinked and tried to pull himself up from his lowly place on the dirty ground, but all he felt was a fire shoot through him, burning every inch, every millimeter of his skin.

He cried out, or he attempted to, but all that escaped his bloodied lips was a strangled attempt at noise. It sounded almost animal-like. It wasn't his normal voice, not a normal sound that usually made.

His throat hurt, he suddenly realized as he brought a shaking hand up to it and flinching when his cold fingers made contact with the exposed skin. He could almost picture the bruises that were surely forming on his skin. He then remembered the calloused hands coming to close around his throat, squeezing tightly every time Blaine felt himself trying to scream out for a savior.

Blaine let his head fall back down to the ground, defeated, lying next to a rusted old dumpster. The putrid smells of its contents rushed at his nostrils, further mocking him with their offense. Their scents seemed appropriate and echoed the way he felt. He felt another jolt of pain as his head landed on a small stone, sucking in a breath at the small-unexpected addition of pain. It was nothing compared to the hell that was coursing through his muscles. He stayed there another few minutes...or possibly more? He didn't even know. Mere seconds could have passed, yet it felt like he had spent an eternity in his current purgatory. After what seemed like three more eternities had passed, Blaine was finally able to hold the ringing phone next to his ear.

"Sam?" he choked out, coughed, the name almost unrecognizable as it barely made its way through the night's air. His voice was a muted ghost, unable to make itself known.

"Hello?" came the confused reply.

"Sam, it's me..." Blaine's throat continued to burn and a new batch of tears began descending, though Blaine wasn't even entirely sure that he ever stopped crying.

"Blaine? Blaine is that you? I can barely hear you."

"I need you Sam…I need your help…I need you…"

Blaine's voice was small, regressing back to that of a child's as he pleaded, entire body shaking as he used every last bit of hope left in it. No more words were formed, only tears and half articulated sobs. He couldn't stop, couldn't control himself. He hated himself in that moment, hated what he had become. He was weak, unable to even answer the questions being directed at him.

He heard Sam freaking out on the other end of the line, begging him to tell him where he was and what had happened, but just like Blaine's pleas that were made earlier, they went unanswered. Blaine thought the answers, tried to push the information out of his brain, hoping it would somehow find it's way to the worried blond.

The world around him began to fade away again. He should have panicked. He wanted to panic, but in that moment, Blaine found it hard to care enough to exert himself like that. There was a small sense of relief as the pain began to ebb away, releasing him from its prison and torture as numbness set in. His lasts thoughts before everything went completely dark were of the shy looks that he had caught Sam giving him earlier that night. He thought of the shy looks. He thought of the…

— **Glee —**

Some more time had passed before Blaine felt a new sensation of warmth spread through his body. He wasn't able to open his eyes, but he had an unsure belief that he was being carried. He didn't know who it was or if he was even hallucinating the warmth, but somewhere deep down inside of him, a stubborn sliver of hope prayed for those arms to belong to a blonde man with hazel-green eyes, to someone who stole shy glances.

— **Glee —**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: No lie, I was pretty hesitant to put this up because this isn't exactly my comfort level in subject matter, but Loki Firefox (co-author of the great story "Brand New Ground") essentially told me to shut up and post it lol. So I'd like to thank him for his brassness, as well as my current writing partner (one that I am stealing away from him for my upcoming story) TheFauxMe for suggesting that I send it to him in the first place. Most of all though, I'd like to give a shout out to the ever-perfect openmymindcomeinside because if it weren't for our Skype conversation about ridiculously horrible sex scenes, this blurb would never have been written (especially since I wrote the first half as a joke and then was forced to finish it, per her demands lol). It started off as a 400-word joke and ended up turning into this.**

**So this isn't the beginning of the next fic that I had been talking about. Actually, that one is still in the process of being written. The good news is that our entire first chapter is written 8,000+ words as well as an outline for the whole story. We want a few chapters under our belts before we post, but keep an eye on the lookout for it in the coming weeks, I'd imagine.**

**So I'd appreciate it if you took a minute or two and jot down your thoughts or impressions. Feel free to tear it apart or give it a thumbs up. I'm always too eager to get a "review" email notification. Thank you in advance to all who do! Much appreciation. **

**UPDATE: So I started this off as just a one shot, something that amused me one night...as odd as that may be to say about a rape ****fix...awkward...but I've decided to continue this as a sort of collection of unrelated one shots dealing a less than lucky Blaine Anderson. I'm dedicating this to Loki Firefox, partly because he's the one who encouraged me to post THIS chapter of it, but also because of his undying love for all things Darren Criss/Blaine Anderson...and I'm just a huge douche bag who is amused by the shenanigans of doing horrible things to him (Blaine) in Loki's name. :)**


	2. Vol 2: The Hotel Room

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello again! I honestly didn't think that I'd be ever hitting the "update" button for this story…but here we are! Hope you enjoy! **

**DISCLAIMER: Please note that while this IS in the same story as the first chapter, these two chapters or versions of Blaine and Sam are not at all related. These are separate worlds and characters. There is no continuity from the first chapter to this one. Just hit the reset button in your head and it'll be all good.**

**I own nothing unfortunately. Sad day.**

— **Glee —**

**Photographs of a Tragic Anderson: A Collection of Odes to Loki**

**Volume 2: The Hotel Room**

Blaine smiled to himself as he hummed and made his way down the hallway. He felt his body swaying lightly, dancing to the playful orchestra performing in his imagination. He tossed his head to and fro as the nymph-like violins flittered across their strings and the cello section let out a skipping pizzicato. The smile that he wore like a proud badge of honor seemed to be infectious as he passed a couple on his way, receiving a smile from the old couple as they waved to his passing form, amused at the young love before their aged eyes. He smiled in return, a softly sung "Good evening" escaping his lips and harmonizing with the soft, singing symphony as it slithered through his lips.

The balls of his feet moved in a rhythmic pattern as his navigated the hallways of the charming hotel. His feet seemed schizophrenic, unsure of what style to express themselves through, switching from tap, to a jitterbug, before swapping their previous steps for a more appropriate waltz. The floral wallpaper floated around him, the buds seeming to bloom before his eyes as he watched the numbers on the doors grow larger and larger.

…104…108…112…

He stopped shortly later, finally reaching room 116 and taking in a deep breath. His eyes traced every detail of the door, wanting to commit every part of this night to memory. He wanted to remember the soft grain of the wood. He wanted to remember the romantic curved lines that decorated the antique doorknocker and the way the elegant brass teased little reflections of light from the chandeliers. He wanted to remember the way the plush carpet felt against his bare feet, gently tickling his toes and the weight of his shoes that he carried in his hand, their worn yet comfortable leather rubbing ever so slightly against his calloused fingers.

He was going to do it. He was.

The moment had come, the moment he hadn't even known that he had been waiting for, ever since he'd seen Sam in the small, quaint coffee house: the moment that had been born from their conversation that they had shared only a few short minutes before, in the courtyard at the party.

"_I think I'm in love with you…"_

_Blaine sucked in his breath, forgetting how to breathe. He froze and stared at the shy blond standing before him. He didn't know what to say, how to react. He was taken aback, not by fear or dread for how to gently rebuff the admission, but by the joy that surged through his bones, filling him with an electricity usually saved for epic love poems about star-crossed lovers. _

_His mouth opened and closed numerous times, surely making him look silly, a caricature of himself: a silent movie character who bore a striking resemblance to a one, Mr. Blaine Devon Anderson._

"_I think I'm in love with you too…"_

_The words had escaped his mouth of their own accord, unwilling to wait for Blaine's command, mutinous soldiers deeming themselves smarter than their commander, and judging by the pleased expression stretched across Sam Evan's face, they were._

"_You do?" the blond asked, his voice cracking slightly, though going unnoticed by the taller man._

"_I do," Blaine replied, the boyish grin taking root and planting itself on his lips._

"_I do too," Sam responded, then laughing at how silly the two sounded. _

_Blaine averted his eyes to the ground and, for the slightly of moments, felt his heart ache slightly at the loss of contact with Sam's green orbs. He shook his head, his grin still tattooed on his lips, and reached out, hesitantly brushing the tips of his fingers against the smooth skin exposed by Sam's rolled-up sleeves. The contact elicited a sharp intake of breath from the blond that Blaine was able to hear, the reaction warming his heart in a way that he had long forgotten. _

"_I really love you, Blaine…"_

Sam's words echoed in his mind, a gentle ghost, reminding him of the sweet melody that had been delivered to his ears. Blaine's smile grew and a quiet laugh accompanied it. He shook his head, almost as if he still couldn't believe how the night had transpired. They had arrived at the hotel as friends, content to support their friends on their wedding weekend. He hadn't planned on declaring his love for the man that he had grown impossibly close to over the past few months, a rekindled friendship that had turned into so much more.

Blaine let out a deep breath as he raised his hand, pulling it back to knock on the solid oak door. His fist tightened, energy surging through him as it moved through the air, but stopping only centimeters before making contact with the wooden surface. A small idea had popped in his head, eliciting a small smirk as the fist opened up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a key, the one that Sam had given him earlier that day. Blaine remembered how the flustered Sam had asked him to grab an extra shirt for him since Sam's then current polo had been stained by one of the bridesmaids who had been complimenting Sam's physique the entire weekend, much to Blaine's annoyance. He had left the two while the inebriated girl was insisting that he take it off so that she could wash it for him.

Where she planned to do said washing, Blaine had no clue.

Blaine was pulled back to the present when he heard to lock turn as he gingerly slipped the key into the old brass fasten, turning the metal invitation and gripping the knob as he pushed.

The inside of Sam's room slowly came into view as the opening widened, the door continuing its welcome. He took in the ivory wallpaper and deep mahogany woodwork that adorned the room. He gently shut the door, doing his best not to make a sound. He could hear Sam's voice coming from another room within the suite.

The door closed without a sound, Blaine mentally congratulating himself as he turned and silently made his way towards Sam's deep baritone, enjoying the moment more than he should, his movements being embellished dramatically as he amused himself with his exaggerated choreography.

The closer he got, the clearer Sam's words became, but what was he talking about? Target? Hit? Who was he talking to? These were not words that were normally formed by the blonde's full lips. His movements lost all semblances of playfulness and whimsy as he strode around the corner, his mouth announcing his arrival.

"Sam, what are y—"

Blaine suddenly froze, his words halting in his mouth, the proverbial sound of screeching tires punctuating the moment as he choked on the air that he had been inhaling. He could almost picture the stars falling out of the sky and the wind ceasing to blow in shock. All thoughts that he had in his mind had suddenly disappeared—his Parisian orchestral soundtrack, the small rhythm of his hallway waltz, the exaggerated child-like creeping that he had used while entering the room—vanishing like smoke in the night, like sand through his fingers, and all he could do was concentrate on the metal beast that was hovering before his eyes.

"Sam?" he forced out, the sounds being chopped up by Blaine's uncontrollable nerves, his body trembling on its own accord. His eyes focused on the gun barrel that was pointed directly at his heart. He couldn't see anything else. He couldn't see the phone in Sam's hand being dropped to the bed. He couldn't see Sam's eyes scan the room, probably looking for a third member at their party. He couldn't see or even hear the key in his own fingers slipping down his sweating fingers, tumbling to the floor.

What was happening? How was the reality before him even a possibility? When had the rug been pulled out from under him? A million questions flashed through his mind, each with a screaming voice louder than the next, though they all asked the same question. The armies of demanding questions filled his mind, hindering him from being able to fully comprehend the situation at hand.

"W—What...?"

"You aren't supposed to be here," came Sam's cold reply. The smile that had become so familiar to Blaine, such a warming companion on a winter's night, had suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a freezing, calculating expression of nothingness.

Blaine's heart raced even faster as his saw the skin of Sam's finger on the trigger tighten as the lone appendage applied pressure to the tiny, metallic executioner. He was vaguely aware of Sam speaking, asking questions, but was unable to take in his words. They rushed into his ears, tearing away at his insides before exiting out the other side without every stopping to make themselves understood.

Blaine blinked. He stared at the barrel. Nothing else existed.

Nothing.

He forgot about the room, the wedding. He forgot about their friends that were outside, oblivious to the twist that was occurring within the walls of the room, the last act of the story that no one ever sees coming. He forgot about the conversation that they had outside. He forgot about the "I love you's" that had been shared like confessions on a first grade playground on a warm May afternoon between a stuttering boy and a blushing girl.

He forgot it all.

He had forgotten Sam.

He had forgotten himself.

Everything slowly started coming back to him. Blaine felt like an amnesic patient whose memory was returning all at once. It was as if the walls of his mind were being torn apart by a flood of memories, of consciousness that was coming back, refusing to be denied their home in his head. Blaine felt a pain in his head at the base of his neck before it quickly began spreading, infecting the rest of his mind with its same cancerous venom. Sam's words were slowly coming back into focus as Blaine's eyes, for the first time, tore themselves away from the weapon in front of him and focused on its wielder, his intimate stranger, the man whom he thought he knew, the man holding a gun to his chest.

"For what it's worth, I really did like you."

As those words finally registered in Blaine's mind, he was transported back into a memory of a beautiful summer day.

_He and Sam had been walking though the park, the two having decided to play hooky from their respective jobs. The laughed and smiled, sneaking glances at one other, oblivious to the other's attempts. Blaine looked up, squinting his eyes against the rays of the Sun, the celestial orb that was warming his skin and slowly turning Sam's pale skin a soft pink color._

"_So why did I agree to call in sick today? I honestly can't even think of a good reason for me to be out here. Do you realize the piles of paperwork that's going to be sitting on my desk tomorrow?" Blaine lectured with his hands in his pockets, his teasing smile being kept at bay so as not to alert Sam to his playful moment._

"_I dunno," Sam shrugged, shoving his hands into his own pockets, "I didn't feel like being alone today. It's too nice out."_

_Blaine physically stumbled at Sam's words, being caught off guard and catching the toe of his show with the grass below his feet. Had he heard Sam right? Did the blond just say, without so many words, that he wanted to enjoy the day with him?_

"_Oh."_

_Sam laughed as he playfully shoved the shorter man next to him, "Aw, come on Blaine. Live a little. It's one day. Those papers will still be there tomorrow, but the world could end today and you could either spend your last day cooped up in some office or out here with me. And remember, one of those options has a better view."_

_Sam delivered his last line with a flexing of his arms. Blaine outwardly rolled his eyes while inwardly commanding himself not to trip for a second time._

"_I guess you're right. The lake does look pretty ni—"_

_His last word was cut off and replaced with a shout of surprise as Sam tackled him and he felt the soft ground collide with the back of his shirt. He laughed as the two rolled around until Sam had him effectively pinned._

"_You were saying?" Sam teased with a smug expression._

"_For what it's worth," Blaine said, wincing slightly as he felt a cool breeze briefly tickle the tip of his nose before disappearing again, "I wasn't really putting up much of a fight."_

_The two locked eyes, each surprised by the accidental admission in Blaine's words. Their hands never left the other. Instead, they simply stayed where they were, unconcerned with the looks they were receiving and unconcerned with the stains that were settling into their shirts. All they knew was the heat that was pooling under their skin where flesh met flesh._

_They didn't want to say goodbye._

"For what it's worth, I really did like you."

The words cut through Blaine like a knife, crippling him with their single blow. He felt paralyzed. He felt betrayed. He felt like his heart had been ripped from him, not even given the courtesy of a reason or explanation. He closed his eyes, shutting out the once angelic face and accepting his cruel and unforeseen fate, as a single tear carved its path down Blaine's cheek. His heart pounded in his chest. He was half convinced that his life would be ended by his escaping heart, his second Brutus in the room, instead of the bullet that he was seemingly promised for walking into the wrong hotel room at the wrong time. He heard Sam's voice one last time, before...

"Goodbye, Blaine."

Darkness.

— **Glee —**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So here we are. How's that for a sucky day? So like I have previously said in the updated author's note in chapter one, this has morphed into a place where I'm just going to post random one shots. This is all in good fun and I hope it can be seen as such. I'm still working on my follow up to WLWLWSA, but these two volumes were just little jokes that I didn't want to let go.**

**All thanks go to Loki Firefox, my muse for this project, and his admiration for Darren Criss/Blaine Anderson. I can only pray that these volumes can fill his sleep with pleasant dreams, haha!**

**Again, please remember that these volumes have NOTHING in common except for maybe the inclusion of two very different Blaines and Sams. Actually, this volume was mostly a reason to SOMEHOW use a secret agent/assassin in a story, even if it was limited as it was.**

**I'm totally open to suggestions for ideas for future volumes. Send 'em in! **

**Thank you to all who reviewed the first chapter. You are all awesome! I was honestly surprised that so many people showed some love! Feel free to do it again, actually, **_**please**_** do it again. I live for reactions. You rock. I'm out.**

**And lastly, continue to look out for the real follow-up story. It's coming soon!...hopefully…. :)**

**P.S. Is anyone out there getting a kick out of my "book covers"? I find them hilarious. Maybe it's just me...great...now it's awkward...**


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